


hand in hand is the only way to land

by eclectictsunami



Category: True Detective
Genre: Animal Metaphors, Developing Relationship, Domesticity, M/M, Slice of Life, So many animal metaphors, Why does my Marty love Walmart so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:13:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28495152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eclectictsunami/pseuds/eclectictsunami
Summary: “I suppose I could have been a painter, you know, a historian. Old scenes, new details.”“Yeah, yeah. You do much painting?”“Nah. Little late in the game to start something like that, I reckon. Life’s barely long enough to get good at one thing.”“If that long.”“Yeah, so be careful what you get good at.”- True Detective Episode 7, "After You've Gone"
Relationships: Rustin "Rust" Cohle/Martin "Marty" Hart
Comments: 7
Kudos: 36





	hand in hand is the only way to land

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xJuniperx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xJuniperx/gifts).



> For Jackie...but isn't everything I write for Jackie now? At the end of this godawful fucking year I can think of exactly one undoubtedly, entirely good thing that happened, and that's meeting you. Happy New Year and enjoy the terrible old men.
> 
> Title from "The Lovecats" by the Cure, because I JUST haven't run the cat metaphor into the ground enough already, and YES it is way too similar to another title I already wrote but...cat metaphors

It’s one of those things that sticks in Marty’s head, long after. Everything Rust says tends to stick with him, in one way or another; he can forget for a long time, but it always comes back up. Nothing to do with him ever stays buried, the good or the bad. The rise and fall of their years in each other’s lives, from the triumphs to the fights to the petty, insignificant everyday. He’s an inevitability.

Rust is a strange creature. There’s something half-tamed about him, even here, as he’s recovering and painfully, vulnerably human. He still doesn’t look like he quite belongs here in Marty’s apartment, or anywhere at all; he looks like he could bolt into the wild at any moment, or disappear into the ether, even when he’s got his arm wrapped around Marty’s shoulder for support when he stumbles into the shower, or settling onto the couch with a one hand pressed to his stomach like he’s just holding in his insides. He’s like a cat that way. Skittish. Prickly. Might slow down long enough to settle in your lap, but always ready to spring away at any moment, startled in a way only animals can be.

Marty never much liked cats. Doubts Rust would appreciate the comparison.

At any rate, Marty’s not sure what Rust does in the apartment all day. Reads, mostly. He gives Marty a list of books to check out at the library, and it’s nice, actually; Marty’s never been much of a reader, beyond the occasional Stephen King; never had the time or the patience, but it’s not such a terrible thing to sit in companionable silence with Rust, reading. Rust will read everything under the sun, it seems, reads everything from theoretical physics to philosophy to the kind of romance novels with the watercolor art on the covers, which Marty is pretty sure Rust only requests to embarrass him, but it’s impossible to tell with the poker face the man has. 

He’s drinking less, too, which gives him a lot less to fill his day. It’s not a conversation they’ve had, Marty’s just cut back on the beer in the fridge, stopped buying it regularly, and Rust hasn’t said anything about it. It doesn’t seem like the kind of thing they need to talk about. Lots of things that don’t need talking about.

It’s something he does on a little bit of an impulse, going into the art supplies store. He passes the place all the time between work and home, never had occasion to go in, but there’s a funny little pang in his heart when he thinks of Rust saying it, I could have been a painter. As close to wistful as the man was likely to get.

He has no idea what to do with himself when he goes in. It’s the kind of charming, youthful place that makes him feel like he’s living in a different city than everybody else, one that doesn’t seem to exist anymore. All kinds of crafts and tchotchkes, some stuff that looked like something Maggie’s mom would have had around the house, some of it hipster crap, all of it with price tags that have him reeling. He should have just gone into the craft aisle at Walmart, for chrissakes.  
“Hi,” says a cheerful voice too close to his ear. “Can I help you find anything?” Marty nearly drops what he was holding, a thin scarf with some sort of fox pattern on it - did everything have animals sewn on it, these days? The girl’s pretty, got glasses and a big smile. Young. Young and pretty in a way that makes Marty feel old.

“Yeah,” he says, and clears his throat. “Looking for something for a friend. He…says he might like to paint? Not, you know, a really crafty kind of guy. Not sure what I’m doin’ here, to be perfectly honest.” He gestures to himself, gives the sort of hapless, charming little chuckle that always made saleswomen smile and take pity on him when he was picking something out for Maggie or the girls, a necklace or perfume or some such; disarming, shows he’s out of place.

The girl’s smile widens and crinkles at the edges. “Not sure where to start, huh?” Marty nods, chuckles again in that companionable way that makes her lean easier. “Okay. So you’re looking for something for a beginner? I’d recommend something in the charcoals to start with.”

“Charcoals,” Marty says, thoughtful. He can imagine that easily. Not something with a lot of color, something a little rough around the edges. He can see it. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.”

He presents the paper and charcoals to Rust without much fanfare, just dumps it on the kitchen table where Rust is reading, sprawled back in his chair. Resists the urge to make a thing of it, like he might have with Maggie. Doubts Rust would take kindly to that.

“Got you something,” he says.

Rust’s eyes flick up, briefly, from the brick of a novel he’s reading. Marty can’t quite make out the author, but he’s pretty sure it’s Russian. Figures. “Finally got me that engagement ring?”

“No, asshole. Charcoals. Picked ‘em up today. For your…art, or what have you.” He suddenly feels supremely stupid.

“Nah, Marty,” Rust says, eyes back on his book. “Can’t imagine what I’d use that for. No need to go the trouble.”

“You think I’d go to trouble for you? Just thought you might like something to do, that’s all. You’re - look at you, you’re gonna destroy your eyes reading with no light like that.”

“You’re a shining example, Marty.” He flips the page of his book, somehow manages to look supremely unimpressed even though all Marty can see is his forehead. “A true patron of the arts.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Marty sighs. He’s annoyed, a little embarrassed maybe, but what did he expect? It’s not like a cat ever plays with the toys you get them. You spend a bunch of money on something and they go around playing with a broken rubber band. That’s just how it goes.

xx

He forgets all about the charcoals after that. Figures he must have tossed them, or maybe Rust did, or maybe Rust is hoarding them under his bed for who the fuck knows what reason. All he knows is that one day he comes home from picking up dinner and Rust is drawing, propped up on the couch, brows furrowed in that way he gets when he’s focusing on something.

“Got us burgers,” is all he says. Knows better than to make a thing of it. Quickest way to get Rust to bolt.  
“Fine,” is all Rust says, but he keeps drawing. Marty hides a grin behind his hand.

xx

He starts seeing evidence of the drawings around the place, after that. Rust isn’t a messy guy, by nature, but it’s a small place. Sees bits of sketches out of the corner of his eye. Things he can’t quite make out without Rust noticing, part of a willow tree, maybe. Sees a piece of charcoal used down to the nub left on the coffee table.

Rust’s hands are always a little dusted now, the tips of his fingers dark. Occasionally there’s a smudge of dark across his cheekbone, something Marty would normally point out, but for some reason he doesn’t; thinks it would be a shame if Rust wiped it away. Sees Rust looking at him once out of the corner of his eye with a new kind of scrutiny, sharper than he’s used to, and look down at the page again; Marty wants to ask if he’s sketching him, make a joke out of it, but can’t quite bring himself to say anything.

After a while Rust stops being cagey about it, though he still doesn’t really talk about it. Not much to say, Marty supposes. It looks like a lot of the sketches end up crumpled in the garbage, which Marty finds a little sad. He fishes one out once when Rust isn’t in the room; it’s a sketch of a pair of hands, large ones, with a tan line where a ring used to be.

xx

Rust’s hair is always falling into his face when he draws, no matter whether it’s tied back or not. He’s never said so, certainly not to him, but Marty has always liked Rust’s hair. Been envious of it too, with the way his own has thinned out to almost nothing. Liked it when it had those curls back when they first met, a little untamable when the rest of him moved so careful, so slow. Secretly thought it was too bad when he cut it short. Everything about Rust is tough, weathered, sharp; he’s always a little too thin, eyes set deep in his head, his jaw always too tight. More worn down all the time, through the years. But he’s got that hair. Long now, and thick still, despite the fact that it’s greyed through. It’s the softest thing about him.

Marty loves long hair on women, always has, loved running his hands through it, from his mother to Maggie on down to when he’d braid his little girls’ hair back when they still let him. Loves the feel of it, the way it frames a woman’s face. Sometimes Rust pulls his back into a braid, messy, and Marty can imagine taking it out of those knots. Is almost certain it’d be as soft as it looks, if Rust ever let himself be petted.

xx

Rust starts leaving his sketches around a little more. Marty knows it’s deliberate, that the man would hide them from him if he didn’t want them seen. Sees Carcosa in them sometimes, the spirals Rust had seen in the sky. The altar too, the piles of filthy cloth and bare bone, the yellowed skulls. The stone ruins of that terrible place. Antlers. Childress’ face, or the shadows of it. The place Rust almost died, the place where he never thought he’d escape. It’ll haunt them both till the day they die. No question about that.

He knows Rust has nightmares. There’s no way he doesn’t. They don’t quite talk about it, because they don’t talk about things like that, but sometimes he hears things coming from the little corner of a room that’s Rust’s, gasps that are sharp and too tight, hears the man get up and pace way too fast. Sometimes Marty makes a big show of getting up and heading into the living room, switches on the TV and waits for Rust to join him.

“Sorry,” he says when Rust comes in. “I wake you up?”

“Hard not to with that racket,” Rust grumbles. “Never let a man get any sleep around here.”

“I’m terribly uncivilized,” Marty agrees. “Don’t know how you stand it." He turns the volume up a couple more notches. 

Sometimes the sketches look like Marty, and that’s haunting in its own way, too.

xx

It’s easier at night, the not-talking. To not fill the air between them bickering about inconsequential bullshit, Rust pontificating, Marty picking a fight, both of them edging at each other in that familiar way. 

Tonight, it’s happened so gradually Marty barely notices. The TV’s on but he’s scarcely paying attention, and Rust is reading something next to him - essays of some kind, Marty thinks. Rust is moving a lot better now, can get himself to and from the library whenever he likes. He still pays attention.

He’s half-asleep when Rust’s head drops into his lap, easy, like they’ve done it a hundred times before. It’s less surprising than it should be, maybe. There’s a half-finished sketch of Marty on the coffee table, disorienting in the way only an image of your own face can be.

Slowly - carefully - Marty sets his hand down and runs his fingers through Rust’s hair, every bit as soft as it looks. He doesn’t skitter away.

**Author's Note:**

> The Russian book Rust is reading is Dostoyevsky's The Idiot, because of course it is. I don't know what book of essays he's reading; something pretentious. You pick.
> 
> Also, this was partly inspired by the way my cat will only drink water when no one looks at her.


End file.
